


Past Tense

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale writes a memoir of the End Times, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley gets a new hobby, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: At their South Downs cottage, Aziraphale decides to write a record of the Apocalypse That Wasn't, while Crowley wonders why...and also gets a new hobby which may not last that long.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Past Tense

Aziraphale tapped his fountain pen against the desk top. How hard could this _be?_

Beginnings were so important – they set the whole tone of the thing. 

He sat at his desk, pondering. He’d bought a ream of a beautifully thick, deckle-edged cream paper, and brought out his favorite fountain pen. _Now what?_

He glanced over at the chaise, where Crowley lounged in full sprawl, sipping a glass of wine.

Aziraphale didn’t really want to ask for his help. He hadn’t told the dear fellow what he was planning to write yet. There would be questions.

On the other hand, there were parts of the story that he didn’t know, so he’d have to ask sometime. Why not get the issues out of the way at the start?

He sighed. Everything was lovely now – he and Crowley had bought this cottage in the South Downs and moved in only a month ago. Aziraphale kept his shuttered bookshop in London, as a place to go for weekend visits – he wasn’t about to give up fine dining, the theatre, the symphony. 

He had moved a great many books down here, filling up bookcases along the walls of this large second bedroom, which he took to calling the library. He loved this room – a bay window let in the light, the desk fit neatly in front of it, while the chaise provided a place for Crowley to lounge on. 

They were getting along quite splendidly, having confessed their love for each other. There were plenty of soft touches, gentle caresses, just enough kissing…and every night they wrapped round each other in bed, holding on to that love in their own way. 

It was wonderful to have so much time to themselves, to simply be together.

Though it was also an awful _lot_ of time...one couldn’t actually spend every single minute of every single hour of every single day mooning about over one’s dearest friend. 

After that first month of doing mostly just that, Aziraphale decided he really ought to do something else once in a while.

It was October then, and while the cottage had a good-sized garden, it was overrun and neglected, and if he was going to work on it, he may as well wait until Spring.

So he rearranged his books one day. And then rearranged them again the next. After a week of this, his back and shoulders ached, even _after_ performing a small healing miracle. 

During that pointless activity, Aziraphale had picked up a book about apocalyptic prophecies that he’d read decades earlier, long before the one that nearly happened. He’d paged through it, and not only was it all wrong, but it was poorly written.

Which gave him an idea on how to fill up some of those hours when he wasn’t busy gazing fondly at Crowley.

He would write the true version.

So far he had written, _The Antichrist was born, and Crowley used his wiles to convince me to help him stop Armageddon._

Which he had then crossed out, and written, _The Antichrist arrived on Earth, which prompted Crowley to ply me with fine food and drink in order to—_

That sentence never even got finished before it, too, was excised.

Truthfully, he had been a willing participant in the whole “let’s stop this from happening” plan. What was the point of a memoir if he couldn’t be honest? 

_After the Antichrist appeared, Crowley and I agreed to influence his upbringing so that the End Times would be averted. We both took up residence with the family when the boy turned five, and spent the next six years cancelling each other out._

_It should have worked. Pity we spent those six years with the wrong child._

_I_ do _hope the poor lad doesn’t require years of psychoanalysis later._

Aziraphale set down his pen. That wasn’t right, either. This was serious stuff, and the tone was too casual. A second opinion might not come amiss after all.

He looked over at Crowley. Time to confess. 

He took a deep breath, and then he coughed a little cough. “My dear, I’d like your opinion on something…um, something I happen to be writing. Just a little record of sorts. I need a bit of help on the opening lines.”

Crowley sat up, quirking an eyebrow. “Record? What sort of record?”

“Well, it’s a kind of journal or chronicle or, um…memoir, really. I’m writing a memoir about the apocalypse.”

“You _what?”_ Crowley sat up straighter. “ _What?_ Are you out of your mind?”

“Of course not.” He waved a hand at the nearest bookshelf. “Books are my _world_ , yet I’ve never written a thing. I want to try, and as authors are advised to write about what they know, well, naturally the end of the world seemed the best subject.”

“Did it now?”

“Yes. What else would I do?”

“ _Not_ write anything, that’s what. Did it occur to you that _I_ feature in that event in a fairly sizeable fashion, and that maybe I don’t _want_ to be written about?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, of course you’d be in it. So? It’s not as if anyone is going to _read_ it. At least, not unless I lose track of its whereabouts at some far future time and some human finds it, but that’s neither here nor there.” 

Crowley took a good, long drink of his wine. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not asking _you_ to read it. I am merely seeking advice on how to begin.”

“What did I do to deserve this,” Crowley muttered.

“You became my best friend, that’s what you did. And as such, I should think you would want me to be _happy_.”

Crowley groaned. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

“Good.” He waited. 

Silence ensued. 

Aziraphale sighed again. “So do you actually _have_ any advice?”

“On how to start?”

“Yes!” He paused. Then he put on his best pleading expression, making his eyes go wide. “Please?”

“You do that so well. Do you practice in front of a mirror?”

“Crowley, my dear—“

“Yeah, yeah. Do you really need a hobby?”

“Just be helpful, will you? Should the tone be formal, or casual, or somewhere in between? I haven’t even got a good opening line yet.”

“ _Once upon a time_ ,” Crowley replied. “ _An angel and a demon met on the wall of Eden, and managed not to throttle one another._ ”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Might happen soon.”

“Sorry, all I’ve got.”

“Well, I’m not starting all the way back _then_. Authors are advised to begin _in media res_. I’m starting with the, er, discussion we had at the bookshop when we agreed to work together.”

“Oh, right. _Godfathers_.” He smiled. “How about, _I had a wily adversary in the demon, but he bested me in the end._ ”

“Utter nonsense.” Clearly this had been a mistake. “Never mind.”

“Really – is that it? No other questions for your magnum opus?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll manage on my own.”

“Fine. Do that.”

“Perhaps _you_ could find a hobby,” Aziraphale said.

“I like not doing things. I’m good at it.”

“I should imagine you might get bored at some point.”

“Maybe. Won’t be filling up my time writing down nonsense about the past, though. I’ll leave that to you, Angel.”

Aziraphale felt a mild pang of guilt at having irritated Crowley. “Sorry.”

“Whatever.” Crowley rose from the chaise in a fluid motion. “Think I’ll go for a drive.”

Aziraphale stood and touched his arm, halting him in mid-stride. “You’re not _truly_ upset that I want to write this, are you?”

He felt Crowley’s tense body relax under his touch. “It’s all right.” He gave Aziraphale’s arm a light squeeze. “Do what you need to do.”

Then he turned and strolled out. 

Two days later Aziraphale sat at his desk in the library room again, scribbling away on a drizzly afternoon. Crowley had driven off again early that morning to London, for the Bentley’s annual tune-up. 

He felt the writing was going well, over all – that he had achieved the right tone. He’d got down the description of their ill-fated efforts to influence the wrong child, and their belated discovery of the mistake.

Next came the search for the right boy, starting at Tadfield. Aziraphale smiled fondly as he recalled the way Crowley had gently miracled away the paint stain on his coat. 

Then he frowned as he remembered Crowley turning the paintguns into real ones, and how he had reacted when Aziraphale accused him of being _nice_.

_I’m never nice—_

Then Aziraphale smiled again as he recalled what he had thought at the time. _Methinks thou doth protest too much_.

Yes, he had definitely touched a nerve there. 

He was about to start in on a vivid description of the car-bicycle accident when he heard the front door open and shut. _Ah. Crowley_.

A few seconds later his friend sauntered into the room carrying a very large shopping bag.

_Oh, dear. What on Earth?_

“Hello, Angel. Enjoying your memoirs?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I am.”

Crowley dumped the bag on the chaise. “Be right back.”

Aziraphale got up and poked in the bag. He pulled out a colorful box with a photograph of the Colosseum on the front. _Paper model kit. Sturdy. Easy to assemble. Non-odorous glue._

“Oh, my,” he murmured.

He heard odd banging sounds from the hallway. Crowley soon reappeared, hauling a folding card table into the library. “Mind if I set this up in here?” 

“ _What_ are you up to?” 

“It’s my new _hobby_.” Crowley set the table against a bookcase, then grabbed the shopping bag to pull a second colorful box from the bag. “Got the Tower of London, too.”

Aziraphale looked at it. The thing had over five hundred pieces. _Suitable for ages 12 and up._

Crowley hauled out a third box – the Eiffel Tower.

“ _You’re_ doing history as a hobby,” he explained. “So I thought I’d do something historical, too. In a way where I don’t have to read or write anything.” 

“You’re seriously going to put these things together.”

“Yup.” 

Aziraphale stared in horror as he read the finished size of the Tower. “This thing is two feet across! Where are you going to _put_ them when they’re done?”

Crowley smiled as he looked round the room. “Could do with a bit more décor in here, don’t you think?”

“ _No!_ Absolutely not.” Why, oh why had he suggested a hobby…this was his own fault. 

“But it will be _fun_ to see them here.” 

“For you, maybe – oh, honestly. You’re doing this to pay me back for penning my memoirs.”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, that thought did cross my mind, when I first spotted them. But the more I looked at these things, I thought, well, maybe he’s right. I’ve got nothing to do – maybe I _do_ need a hobby.”

Aziraphale frowned. He actually sounded sincere. “Honestly?”

“They’re sort of like souvenirs of places I’ve been.” He smiled. “You know how I like souvenirs.”

“Oh, very well.” Aziraphale relented. “Put up the table, then. Just don’t go buying one of the Bastille, please.”

Crowley grinned. “They didn’t have one. I checked.”

_What have I done?_

Aziraphale walked slowly back to his desk and sat down. He stared at a half-finished page. Perhaps he should work backwards, starting from today.

_Crowley is planning to build model kits intended for young humans age twelve and up. One might say he is entering a second childhood, except that he never had a first one._

Ah, well. So long as it kept him busy and happy, maybe it would be just fine.

But he was _not_ going to decorate the library with the darn things.

Aziraphale twiddled the fountain pen between his fingers. The stack of manuscript pages on his desk looked awfully short, and he had run into a bit of writer’s block.

The young lady on the bicycle had left that book behind, Agnes Nutter’s amazing book of prophecy, and he had written down the way he had found it, and how he’d spent all night and morning reading it.

Which lead inevitably to the point in his chronicle where everything nearly went irrevocably pear-shaped.

Did he really want to re-live that wretched meeting at the bandstand gazebo?

He had to, if he were going to tell this story properly. It was _important_. It had meant something – their part in saving the world had to be remembered.

Even if that meant writing about things he should never have done or said – though he hadn’t known at the time how wrong he’d been.

_Crowley wanted me to kill the boy, but I didn’t think I could do it. There had to be a better way. So I didn’t tell him that I’d found the Antichrist. Heaven would fix it – that was my hope._

He looked over to where Crowley was busy constructing the Colosseum out of paper. He’d been at it all day, not even using a single demonic miracle, but steadily and patiently putting the pieces into place with his own hands and skill. 

_A souvenir of ancient Rome_. Yes, they’d had some good times there together.

Aziraphale had Mozart playing softly throughout the cottage, on this quiet Sunday afternoon. A light rain pattered against the windows, and he had the tea kettle on. Perfect bliss.

Except for having to write down the lies he’d spoken that day.

_We’re not friends…_

_There is no ‘our side’…_

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his eyes. Everything had come right in the end. What did the lies matter now? 

But everything about those senseless days mattered. He _had_ to write down what happened, even if it pained him.

He put pen to paper again just as the tea kettle whistled. He sighed. 

“Shall I get it?” Crowley shoved back his chair and sauntered off down the hall.

He returned shortly, and handed Aziraphale his tea.

“Oh, thank you.”

Crowley leaned against the desk, cradling his mug. “How far are you up to?”

Aziraphale felt a sudden, quick shiver down his spine. He hadn’t intended to ever discuss that meeting at the bandstand. Crowley had never brought it up once. Then again, his friend’s moods were often mercurial – he could be angered in one moment, and ready to make amends in the next. 

Did he even _care_ about the horrid words Aziraphale had spoken? After all, it had been _Crowley_ who had tried to apologize later – as if _he_ had done something wrong. 

“I finished telling how I found where Adam lived.” Aziraphale took a sip of the soothing tea. “I’ve got a bit stuck now. Perhaps I shouldn’t write about the next part…it’s, well…it’s difficult.”

Crowley gazed down at the manuscript. “Should I read it?”

“No!” Aziraphale shuffled the papers out of sight. 

“That unflattering?”

“Not at all – it’s merely too rough right now.”

“Really.” Crowley brushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “You don’t want to write about our meeting in the park, is that it?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I can’t think why you ever apologized about that…when – when you were completely in the right.”

“I wasn’t.” The fingers drifted down the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “I tried to get you to leave – to abandon the Earth. You couldn’t do that. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“But I –“ He had trouble thinking, let alone speaking, when Crowley’s hand kept caressing him. “I only wanted to fix things my own way. Without any violence, without harming the boy – that seemed to be your only solution. I had to keep his whereabouts from you. I drove you away on purpose and I _hate_ that I said those things – yet you came back for me anyway.” He paused, closing his eyes against the hurt. “I loved you for that.” 

He opened his eyes and gently stroked Crowley’s arm. “Heaven let me down, but you never did.”

“Put _that_ down in your memoir, then.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and kissed it. “All right? Write it down, and then _let it go_.”

Aziraphale sighed in relief, and he nodded. “Yes. I’ll do that.” He looked at the manuscript pages. “After I finish this tea.”

“Right. Good.” Crowley leaned over to kiss his forehead, then ambled over to his work table.

Aziraphale shoved the memoir to the back of his mind. “How is the Colosseum? It looks nearly finished.”

“The arches are a pain.” Crowley smiled. “Haven’t used a single miracle, though.”

“Well done. What’s next – the Tower?”

“Maybe. I almost wound up discorporated there once.”

“Did you?” That was a part of his history that Aziraphale hadn’t known about before. “When was that?”

“Late fifteenth century. Hanging around the wrong people again – was doing a few minor demonic deeds for Henry VI, happened to be in his entourage when Edward decided he’d rather be king. Wars of the bloody Roses.” Crowley shivered. “Miracled my way out right before they whacked Henry there.”

“Nasty.” 

“Decidedly.”

Aziraphale gazed at him contemplatively. The models were fine for now, he supposed, but he didn’t fancy seeing them pile up around the cottage. Perhaps he could get Crowley thinking of a new hobby to take their place. “You know, my dear, there are far too many past years where I have no idea what you were doing – why don’t you write those down sometime? I know you said you weren’t interested in memoirs, but I imagine your history would be fascinating.”

Crowley shrugged. “Doubt it. Spent too much time in damp places doing bugger all that mattered. Besides, who would ever read it?”

“I would.”

“Oh, so you could read _mine_ , but I can’t read yours?”

“Later,” Aziraphale said hastily. “Maybe later. When it’s polished.”

“You wouldn’t like mine anyway, Angel.” He grinned. “You wouldn’t like the orgies.”

“The _what?”_ Aziraphale nearly spilled his tea.

“The _orgies_. Look it up.”

“I know what the word means!” Honestly. He’d been observing humans for _ever_. 

“Then you’ll remember there were quite a lot of them in Milan, when Leonardo and I were hanging out at the Duke’s palace.” Crowley couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

“You never did a thing there.” Aziraphale knew better, though it was provoking, the way Crowley sat there taunting him.

He’d spent a lot of time in Crowley’s company during the Italian Renaissance, at various courts as his friend gravitated from one party-prone city-state to another. There were festivals and galas and banquets and dancing and…and Crowley, he now recalled, always seemed to disappear when the hours trickled down towards dawn.

Aziraphale sighed. “Would you care to explain?” Not that he really wanted to know.

“Orgies happened there,” Crowley replied. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I got drunk there. Sometimes those two things happened at the same time.”

“I don’t think I want to know.” Despite his protestations, he couldn’t help raising his eyebrows in an inquisitive fashion.

Crowley shrugged. “All right, maybe I was only teasing.”

Aziraphale blew out a pent-up breath. “Nothing happened.”

“’Course not. But I did pass out here and there, from drinking – and I _did_ wind up in other people’s beds. With lots of other people in them.”

“Where nothing happened.”

“Not to _me_.” Crowley set his tea mug down and rubbed his hands together. “Back to the Colosseum.” He returned to his work.

_Honestly_. Aziraphale picked up his pen and tapped it on the desk top.

Orgies, indeed.

The next day was sunny, so they left off their hobbies and drove up to London for the day to collect more books from the shop, to eat lunch at the Ritz, and to take a stroll through St. James’ Park. 

A lovely day, Aziraphale thought, and a refreshing respite from the memoir project. 

And thankfully, Crowley did not say one word about visiting the shop where he’d found those dratted model kits. 

_Whew_.

The following day he returned to his chronicle. Crowley had popped into the village bakery for pastries, bringing back three of the pear Danishes which Aziraphale craved. It was now eleven and he’d eaten every single one.

Crowley had finished his first paper model and was now hard at work on the Eiffel Tower.

_A souvenir of Paris, where they’d shared the best crepes in the world_.

The finished Colosseum model had somehow wound up taking pride of place on top of the master bedroom dresser.

Quite vexing, really.

Aziraphale set to work. He wrote a lengthy diatribe about those blasted angels who threatened him so boldly, and then moved on to that horrifying moment when he’d been accidentally discorporated.

He had a lot to say about that unfortunate out-of-body experience, and he wound up scribbling so intensely that he lost all track of time. 

“Angel.” 

Crowley’s abrupt appearance by his side startled him into making a blotch on the page. _Drat_. “Yes?”

“It’s one o’clock. Why aren’t you eating lunch?”

“Oh.” Good heavens. He’d become so absorbed he’d forgotten to _eat_. Though the pastries had cushioned the hunger pangs. “Do you want to go out?”

“ _You_ need to get out.” Crowley took the pen from Aziraphale’s hand and set it aside. “Stop overdoing this memoir thing.”

“Yes, well, it’s important.” He pursed his lips. “At least, it’s important to _me_.”

Lunch at the village café would not come amiss, however.

Crowley lay a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle caress. “Come on, Angel, don’t get peevish on me.”

“Well, it’s merely that – well, it’s something I care about, and I’d _like_ you to care about the things that I care for.” 

“Isn’t it enough that I’m _here?”_

Truthfully, that should be enough. Crowley spent _most_ of every day here with him in the library, with precisely the right mix of occasional talk and companionable silence. “But this is shared history – _our_ history. I’m trying to get it _right_.”

“Yeah, well, it’s done with.” Crowley’s hand suddenly tightened, then relaxed. “I don’t live in the past. What’s the point?”

Aziraphale laid his hand atop Crowley’s. How to explain? “I think that I simply want to _remember_ the things that mattered – to make a record of the good that we did. That everything that we did – the struggles we went through – _meant_ something.”

He stroked Crowley’s hand. “And that my friendship with _you_ meant something – _means_ something. I’m trying to tell the story of our lives together so that _someone_ will know –“ He broke off, as he felt tears welling, and closed his eyes tightly to stop them. Someone ought to know how much they belonged to each other.

Then he felt himself lifted out of the chair, and opened his eyes as Crowley faced him, holding him by the shoulders. “Angel, don’t mind me. I think I understand now.”

“Do you?” Did he truly understand – Aziraphale looked into the golden eyes and saw something he didn’t get to see often enough, due to those damned sunglasses. There were no sunglasses now to hide that wondrous affection.

Crowley raised a hand to brush it across Aziraphale’s forehead. “Yeah, I do. It’s not a memoir.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. It’s a story about love.”

_Yes_. He did understand. “Yes?”

“It’s about your love for the Earth, and your love for the humans no matter how foolish they are.” Crowley let his fingers drift down Aziraphale’s face. “And it’s about your love for _me_.”

All Aziraphale could do was nod. 

Crowley stepped back, and smiled. “Good. Let’s get lunch.” He turned away to get his jacket and his damned sunglasses.

Aziraphale felt a pang in his abdomen, but it wasn’t for food.

_How did I not know?_

After a leisurely lunch, Aziraphale returned to his task in the library, while Crowley drove off to the next largest town, the closest one with a wine shop, to restock their dwindling supply.

Aziraphale tapped his pen on the blank paper before him. How had he not known, when Armageddon came to call, that he and Crowley weren’t on opposite sides…and never had been.

The one thing he had not addressed in this memoir was his relationship with the Almighty. He didn’t intend to, either.

He’d been loyal to Heaven right through to the end – or nearly the end of all things, to no avail. Or so he had believed – all his actions, all the worst of his choices, were made, he believed, out of loyalty to the Almighty. 

But that wasn’t true. What he’d been loyal to was _the Earth_ , not to Heaven. He’d been true to the Earth that he loved, doing anything he could to save it. He’d been loyal to the humans he loved, not wanting them to suffer.

Heaven had tried to destroy all of it – he should never have been on their side. 

Hell had wanted to destroy it as well, and Crowley had never been on _their_ side. No, Crowley had been loyal to the Earth, and done everything he could to save it. 

He and Crowley had been acting from exactly the same place, and they hadn’t been on opposite sides at all. 

But _he_ had not been loyal to the one person he should have been true to above all others.

Aziraphale looked at the stack of manuscript pages he had so far filled with his jottings. “It’s not a memoir,” he murmured to himself. “It’s a story about _love_.”

And that was why he needed to write it, to remember it – and that was why it mattered.

Crowley was having some difficulty with the Eiffel Tower.

“Damn.”

It was late in the evening – they had eaten dinner out, and had a few drinks, and had returned to the cottage. Even though Crowley had sobered up in order to put a little more work in on the model, things were not going well. 

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale went over to the table to inspect the tower. 

“Lopsided.” Crowley pointed to one of the supports. “That one got off somehow. It won’t stand straight – see how it tilts to that one side?”

Aziraphale bent down to view the tower at eye-level. “Ah. Yes, just a little off, though.” He rose and scratched his chin. “I know you’ve been working hard at this – but you could just miracle it straight.”

Crowley shook his head. Then he smiled at Aziraphale as he said, “But I would always know the mistake was there.” He raised his eyebrows in a clear appeal. “ _Underneath._ ”

A warmth spread through Aziraphale as he leaned in to the Eiffel Tower model and blew a tiny miracle into it, straightening it up.

Crowley beamed at him. “ _Thank you_.”

Aziraphale returned to his desk, suffused with happiness. 

The Eiffel Tower model wound up next to the Colosseum on the dresser.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, gazing at the shelves nearby, crammed with his beloved books.

Crowley understood about the books from early on. He knew how much they mattered, and if he could save them, he did. Little demonic miracles here and there, now and then, whenever the written word was threatened. There were books and manuscripts that would have been lost forever, had he not stepped in. 

From book burnings during the Inquisition, from Henry’s dissolution of the monasteries with their superb scriptoria, from the sacking of Lindisfarne – the treasures were saved.

And he brought them all to a certain angel.

He started to put pen to paper once more, but the ink ran dry.

Aziraphale unscrewed the pen, removed the empty cartridge, and inserted a new one. He supposed a more modern pen might be more practical, but he didn’t want to be practical when it came to writing.

The written word stood sacred in his mental landscape, as holy as any cathedral. Books spoke across the ages, an unbroken cord that tied his world _now_ to the world that had been, through which he had wandered. They were his constant companions.

He screwed the fountain pen together and tapped the nib a few times on a piece of scrap paper, testing the fluidity. When the ink ran smoothly, he set to his memoir – his story of love – once more.

The Tower – thankfully, only the White Tower – began to rise from the table top.

Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had been unusually dedicated to this new hobby. There was no more room on top of the dresser, though, and he did hope that some new interest would take its place soon.

By now Aziraphale had written most of the story, from his uncomfortable habitation of Madame Tracy’s body, to their arrival at the air base, to the way those brave children had tackled the Four Horsemen. Not much left to tell, really.

He looked over at Crowley, who was sitting at the table, studying the model kit instructions while staring at a piece of paper with furrowed brow.

Aziraphale walked over. “Trouble?”

“I think this ruddy piece is numbered wrong. It’s supposed to fit _there_.” He pointed to an arched window in the White Tower. “And it _doesn’t_.”

“Ah, yes. William’s tower.”

“Who?”

“The _Conqueror_. The one who _built_ this.”

“Did he?”

“Well, all right, _ordered_ it to be built. Basic English history – you were _there_.”

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t pay that much attention.” He picked up the piece of paper and tried turning it upside down.

“What do you mean, you weren’t paying attention? It’s _history._ ”

“ _Human_ history, Angel. Not my thing.”

“ _None_ of it? Then what, may I ask, _is_ your ‘thing’, as you call it?”

“Drinking a lot of alcohol.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to swipe his arm across the table and knock the model to the floor. “I happen to know that you did a great deal more during the past six millennia than imbibe wine.” _Such as saving books._

Crowley turned the piece of paper sideways. “So what if I did?” He turned the piece back to the way he’d first been holding it, and frowned some more.

“Oh, here, let me see that.” Aziraphale snatched the instruction booklet. “What’s the piece number?”

“G-13. No need to get tetchy.”

“I am _not_ tetchy.” He read over the instructions for the arched windows, then looked at the model, then snatched the piece of paper right out of Crowley’s hand. 

“Hey –“

“Hush.”

“But –“

Aziraphale gave him a _look_. 

Crowley slouched in his chair, arms crossed. “You’re no fun.”

“Now who’s tetchy?”

“I am.” But Crowley said it with a smile. “Sorry. I know you love history. I know it matters to you.”

Aziraphale took a closer look at the model. _Aha_. “Wrong window.” He held the miscreant piece up to a different, larger archway. “This is where it goes.”

“Oh.” Crowley took the piece back and set about gluing it into place. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him on the lips. “I’m nearly finished, you know. And when I’m done writing, I’ll let you read it if you like, and then we can both let the past go.”

Crowley gazed up at him. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He glanced at the desk, and decided he was done for tonight. “Shall we retire to the sofa and try one of the new wines you bought?”

That night, as they lay in bed in a loving embrace, Aziraphale said softly, “What I remember most, out of all that was said and done, is the way you stopped time – when I needed the most important miracle of all.”

Crowley stirred sleepily against him, briefly tightening his hold. “What else could I do, Angel?”

_Come up with_ something, _or I’ll never talk to you again_. Aziraphale smiled at the memory. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Angel….”

“Hm?”

“Do you know what I remember?”

_Thought you wanted to forget the past_. “What?”

“How alive you were. Well, you were flickering quite a bit, but still. You weren’t _gone_.”

Discorporation. He was talking about that -- Aziraphale shuddered, remembering that utter feeling of helplessness. 

Crowley was talking about the bar – where he’d found him after returning to Earth, after the bookshop had burned down. “They wanted me to stay up there and fight.” Heaven’s army. “There was only one thing worth fighting _for_ , though.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead. “ _Love_.”

“It wasn’t just that you were gone….”

“No?”

“I thought Heaven had taken you,” Crowley whispered. “You weren’t just gone – you were somewhere—“ His voice broke a little. “ _If_ you were still alive – I couldn’t follow you there.”

Aziraphale kissed him again. “That’s why I found my way back.” If he hadn’t gone back to save the Earth, he would have lost everything that he loved – and the one being he had loved more than Heaven _or_ Earth.

“If anything ever happens—“ Crowley sounded faintly raspy.

“Nothing will happen.”

“ _If_ something comes between us someday—“

“Shhh. Not possible. Don’t worry.”

“Angel – I’m _not_ worried.” Crowley trailed kisses down his face. “What I remember is that you came back for me. And you always will.”

Aziraphale kissed his lips. “There are no bonds that could hold me.”

“I _know_.” 

They kissed again, and embraced each other, and they stayed awake long into the night, silently holding communion.

Naturally, he had never set foot in Hell before the trial.

Of course, he knew in theory how dreadful a place it was. When he was taken there in Crowley’s form, Aziraphale certainly wasn’t surprised by its wretched environs. 

What dismayed him, though, was the thought that if Crowley had not been chosen for his task on Earth, he would have spent the last six thousand years in those dank, fetid, crowded corridors among the most cursed creatures – among the damned.

There was no love there at all. As an angel, Aziraphale could sense love. Hell’s dominion held no affection of any kind, and yet it had given him Crowley – a demon who was capable of love. It amazed him.

He wrote about the trial – the fear flowing through him, a fear that he staunchly hid behind a façade of typical Crowley nonchalance, as well as the hope that since every one of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies had held true, this one too would stand the test.

In the end, as he splashed holy water about, Aziraphale had finally relaxed, confident that they’d succeeded. He even had a bit of fun. 

As he sat at his desk writing these final pages, the primary object of all his thoughts surrounding this chronicle sat nearby, at the table, putting the finishing touches on the White Tower.

Done with the trial, Aziraphale added just a short paragraph about meeting up with Crowley again in the park to swap bodies back. 

“I’m nearly done with this,” he said, looking over to the table.

“So am I.” Crowley turned the tower model round to show him the front view. 

“Very neatly done, I must say.” There was no room for displaying it, however. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure it will fit—“

“Don’t worry, Angel. I’ll bring it and the others along next time we go up to Town. They can stay at the bookshop, yes?”

“Of course. You don’t want any souvenirs here, then?” Crowley had left his others in London, except for the da Vinci drawing which graced the wall next to the bay window in this very room.

Crowley got up, crossed to the desk, and placed a light kiss on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “I liked having reminders of our past around me when _you_ weren’t around. That’s changed. I like the present much better now.”

“So do I, my dear.” He turned his face upward for a brief kiss. “I’ll be finished _very_ soon. Then you can read it, if you like.”

“Go on, then.” Crowley went over to the chaise and stretched out.

Aziraphale gazed lovingly at him, lying there languidly, looking utterly at ease. 

Then he returned to finish his story.

No more than half an hour later, Aziraphale put down the final words. He didn’t write them at the end, though. He put them in at the beginning.

_It’s been said that the past is a foreign country…_

_Or is it?_

_No, one shouldn’t dwell in that country, though neither should anyone forget its terrain. History doesn’t happen between the dusty pages of books – it happens to_ people. _The past isn’t dead and gone as long as there are people to carry their stories forward._

_In these pages is the story – a quite astonishing one – that isn’t about the Earth so much as it is about the people who love it. We love it deeply, Crowley and I. We always will._

_And in these pages you will find an even deeper story of love – one between two beings who should have been on opposite sides, who were commanded to be enemies – but who refused to obey. No one should ever hold a duty to hatred._

_This is the record of what we created in the name of love._

Aziraphale capped his fountain pen and put it away in the top desk drawer. Then he gathered up the manuscript pages, rose, went to the chaise, and handed them over to Crowley.

“When you’ve finished reading, tuck this into the bottom left-hand desk drawer. I never use it. I’m going to go do a bit of baking – our favorite biscuits – and then I’ll make tea. Come out to the dining room when you’re done, and don’t say a single word about it.”

Then he strolled off down the hallway, leaving the end of the world behind.


End file.
